More Flies With Honey
by Cinnamon Selkie
Summary: When the Dursleys take Harry in, they truly go along with Dumbledore's request to raise him as their own. Now the almost-eleven-year-old Harry Dursley wants nothing to do with the freak school and freak world that killed his parents. Eventual H/D slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I have no idea where this story is going, or even if it is going to go anywhere. This is just an idea that came to me a few months ago, and wouldn't go away. It wanted out, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it. Cinnamon.

**Disclaimer: **Do not own.

Harry James Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, was proud to say that he was a perfectly normal almost-eleven-year-old boy. A little spoilt, perhaps, but—he liked to think—not quite as spoilt as his cousin and adopted brother, Dudley. Certainly, he was not as fat.

Harry sighed as he trudged through the zoo after Dudley and one of his many friends, Piers Polkiss. He had no interest in the zoo's inhabitants, and still less in Polkiss, who was almost as stupid as Dudley, and that without the extenuating circumstance of being family.

But it was Dudley's birthday, and a family outing to the zoo was exactly the kind of normal thing that a normal family would do to celebrate their son's birthday. When Harry had objected, their dad had given him a look that reminded him that he was the only living reminder of just _why _the Dursleys felt the need to strive so hard for normality. And as _Dudley's _Aunt Marge (she and Harry both found great comfort in the fact that since she was their dad's sister, and _he _was really a nephew on their mother's side, there was no actual blood shared between them) was so fond of pointing out, it had been 'very good of Vernon and Petunia' to take him in.

So here he was.

The day passed more or less uneventfully up until they reached the snake enclosure after lunch—no one but him had noticed the quite remarkable likeness between Dudley and the gorilla, and Dudley himself had thrown a tantrum when his knickerbocker glory wasn't big enough, but neither of these happenings seemed unusual enough to constitute an event.

At the reptile house, Dudley quickly located the largest snake in the place, a Brazilian Boa Constrictor who looked, if possible, even more bored than Harry.

"Make it move," his brother demanded, and of course their dad immediately tapped on the glass. There was no result, of course. Harry could have told them that there wouldn't be. As their parents walked off, and Polkiss showed signs of wanting to do the same, Dudley turned to Harry.

"Make it move," he said again, but this time it was more of a request than a demand. Harry stared at him.

"No..."

"Please, it's my birthday," Dudley whined, while Polkiss looked back and forth between them, completely bewildered.

Unlike their parents and Harry, Dudley had no particular interest in normality. In his view, normal was boring, and boring was to be avoided at all costs.

When they were five, their parents had sat them down and explained that Harry wasn't their biological son, what "biological" meant, who Harry's biological parents had been, how they had died, how they were both supposed to say that they had died in a car crash if asked, that it was Harry's duty to suppress any "freakish tendencies" that he might have inherited from them, and the various meanings of the word "inherited". Dudley had been fascinated. Harry, undergoing the somewhat terrifying realisation that the explosion of the TV the week before had probably not been a design flaw at all, was less pleased.

Over time, Harry had leant that the only way to stop accidental surges of the freakish tendencies was to sort of exercise them regularly out of sight of his parents. Dudley knew, of course, since most of this exercise was done at his request; fixing broken toys, adjusting particularly unfavourable school reports and causing their maths teacher to break out in a nasty rash that got worse whenever he was unpleasant to Dudley. Their parents had been relieved when it seemed that Harry had managed to overcome his unnatural tendencies, while Harry himself had felt almost sick with guilt. He didn't want to lie to them, but at the same time he knew that the truth would only upset them again.

And then, last year, a surprise encounter with a snake in the garden had led to the revelation that Harry could talk to snakes as well. Dudley's delight had been equalled only by Harry's distress. Snakes were a rare occurrence in Privet Drive though, and so Harry had almost forgotten the incident. Dudley, it seemed, had not.

"Pleeeaaase," Dudley coaxed again, and Harry decided that this was unusual enough to merit reward. He glowered at Polkiss.

"This. Never. Happened," he stated menacingly, then turned back to the tank. _"Wake up," _he told the snake, or at least that was how it sounded to him. Dudley had said that it sounded like hissing to anyone else. Piers stared at him like he'd grown an extra head, and Dudley turned eagerly to look at the snake, which was raising its head to look at them.

"_You speak?" _it asked incredulously.

"Duh," would have been the most appropriate response, but apparently that didn't translate into snake language. _"Obviously," _he said instead. Snakes, as he had discovered last year, really weren't that interesting. Beside him, Dudley seemed to disagree, while Polkiss seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. Harry smiled. He knew it was cruel, but the thought that Polkiss was upset by this particular ability somehow made it all worthwhile.

"Can you make it move around more?" Dudley asked hopefully. Polkiss whimpered and Harry smiled.

* * *

"Get the post, Dudley," their dad said from behind his paper, interrupting his and Dudley's Smeltings stick fight. The Smeltings sticks were the crowning glory and only redeeming feature of the Smeltings uniform. Dudley seemed to see no objection to maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers and straw boaters. Harry did, but had decided that refusing to wear the uniform would make him appear more ridiculous than actually wearing it. He supposed that it was traditional for school uniforms to be aesthetically painful, and tried not to think about it too much.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the post, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Get the post, Dudley."

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the post, Harry."

Sometimes, Harry wondered if their dad was even listening to them, or if he just responded automatically to whatever the last comment had been. It would explain a lot. Knowing that Dudley was quite capable of continuing the discussion indefinitely, he rose to his feet and padded down the hall to the front door.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from _Dudley's _Aunt Marge, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Harry.

_ Mr H. Dursley_

_ The Smallest Bedroom_

_ 4 Privet Drive_

_ Little Whinging_

_ Surrey_

The other side of the yellowish parchment envelope showed a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large "H". Harry felt his heart sinking. Shoving the letter into his pocket to deal with later, he carried the bill and the postcard back into the kitchen and handed them to his dad.

* * *

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_

_ Dear Mr Dursley,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_ Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_ Yours sincerely,_

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

There was a loaded silence.

"How are you going to tell Mum and Dad?" Dudley asked at last, and Harry snapped his head around to stare at him.

"I'm not going to tell them. Neither are you."

"So...What? You're just going to run away?"

"What? No! I'm not going. I'm going to write back to this...this...Minerva McGonagall, and tell her thanks but no thanks." Even if their parents hadn't warned him about these kinds of people, he liked to think that he would have thought twice about going to any school whose Headmaster was willing to admit to a title like "Supreme Mugwump".

It was not to be expected that Dudley would share this view, or that he would be quiet about his objections. In the end, though, it was Harry who would have to go to Hogwarts, and so it was ultimately his decision to make.

That same night he composed a brief letter to Minerva McGonagall containing such phrases as, "honoured," "flattered," and "regretfully decline". He had discovered a while ago that adults were more inclined to take you seriously if you used long words (correctly), and there was no sense upsetting the freaks by telling them his real opinion of them and their school. Fitting the letter neatly into an envelope with the intention of delivering it to the nearest post office the next day, he was quite surprised by the appearance of an owl at his window. Well, at least that explained "we await your owl".

Harry went to bed slightly disturbed, but overall relieved to have the whole thing behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Okay, I now have a slightly better idea of where this fic is headed. At least, enough to recommend that anyone with an objection to slash turn back now. This will not become relevent for a while, since Harry hasn't even reached his eleventh birthday, but it will become relevent. Fair warning. Cinnamon.

**Disclaimer: **Do not own.

A couple of days later, the mundane tranquillity of Privet Drive was once more disturbed, this time by a ringing on the doorbell. There was a quick exchange of puzzled glances and a brief discussion—"Get the door, Harry," "Make Dudley get it," "Get the door, Dudley,"—after which it was decided that Dudley would answer the door.

Albus Dumbledore would probably never realise how fortunate—for him—that casual decision was. Had Harry answered it, he would never have stepped foot inside the door. Harry might not like his magic, but he had long acknowledged its occasional usefulness, and familiarised himself with a certain phrase about fighting fire with fire. Dudley, on the other hand, was only too pleased to admit him into the house. Mundane tranquillity didn't agree with him at all.

* * *

Harry was never able to fully explain the series of events that led to him standing in a small and dingy pub, charmingly christened the Leaky Cauldron, alongside the 'Supreme Mugwump' himself.

At various points in the succeeding weeks he would attempt to pin the whole thing on Dudley, who had let the scarily cheerful and probably clinically insane man inside in the first place; at other times on their mum, who, after a few brief words on the theme of what-your-sister-would-have-wanted and not-letting-past-bitterness-taint-the-present, had come to the sudden and unpalatable conclusion that Harry should go to the freak school after all. He tried to blame their dad, who had yielded, however reluctantly, to her persuasions; and finally, Dumbledore, who (in addition to starting the whole thing) had only made the situation worse by warning them all of the terrible consequences that could result from magical suppression—and placed him in the unenviable position of having to admit to his little 'exercises' or going along with their sudden insanity.

Right at that moment he mostly felt fear, only thinly disguised by a sense of general betrayal and muted by overwhelming confusion. He wanted to go home. He wanted to wake up, and discover that this was all just a really, really bad dream. He wanted to kick Albus Dumbledore in the shins, but had just enough common sense remaining to him to refrain.

Dumbledore smiled at him, and gestured expansively toward Diagon Alley.

"Shall we, Harry?"

Diagon Alley was loud, bustling and colourful, almost the total antithesis of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was torn between using the chaos to escape Dumbledore's clutches and using Dumbledore as a shield against the crowd, several of whom appeared entirely too interested in him—or, more specifically, his forehead.

His parents had warned him, of course, that the murder of his biological parents and his own survival made him something of a legend in the world of freaks. But he had been under the mistaken impression that ten years would render him immune to curiosity and recognition. It wasn't that he was particularly averse to attention, in a general way. Minor roles in a couple of primary school productions had indicated quite the opposite.

But those productions had been before friends, family and the family of friends, not on a crowded street in the middle of what Harry was quickly coming to regard as enemy territory. Here he wanted nothing more than to be invisible.

Their first stop was to Gringotts Bank. They climbed a set of white stone steps, and then were bowed through the bronze front doors by a goblin dressed in red and gold. Inside, another pair of doors, these ones silver, sported a poem which Harry deemed rather classy, as threats of death, torture and disembowelment went. Although an admonition against greed was perhaps not in the best taste given the huge piles of jewels being weighed up within. His own vault contained an unnecessary amount of green smoke, and what could literally be described as piles of magical treasure.

Harry had never wanted for anything in his life, but he nevertheless felt a certain proprietary thrill as he surveyed the mounds of gold, silver and bronze. Forget not wanting for anything; his great times twenty grandchildren would live their lives in luxury. He supposed it would be some compensation for the curse of magic that he would most likely pass on to them as well.

After Gringotts, they moved on to Ollivanders, which claimed to have been making fine wands since 382 BC. It had apparently not been dusted since its construction, and also seemed to suffer from the same interior—and exterior—decorator as the Leaky Cauldron.

"Good afternoon," a soft voice greeted them, and an old man with large pale eyes stood before them. Harry thought he was probably going for 'mysterious', but what he had actually achieved was a lot closer to 'profoundly mentally disturbed'. Harry disliked him immediately.

"Ah yes," the man murmured. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter. You have your mother's—"

"It's _Dursley._"

"Now, now, my boy," from Dumbledore, "no need to be rude." The creepy man didn't seem to notice.

"—your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand."

"Really? Buying a wand in a wand shop! Fancy that!"

"Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." The man moved closer to Harry.

"Lovely. What makes you think I care?" Harry asked, clicking his fingers directly before the man's face. "And there's this thing called blinking—you might have heard of it. I suggest you try it some time."

"My _dear _boy, is that really necessary?" Dumbledore scolded gently behind him, although Harry could have sworn there was a slight quiver of amusement in his voice.

"Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more powerful and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

"Of course," Harry agreed sarcastically. "Sticks are much better qualified to make that kind of choice than humans, who are hindered by that pesky thing called sentience." It seemed that that was what it took to distract the creepy man—Ollivander?—from his spiel, and also from his increasingly intense regard of Harry's forehead. His eyes bulged in outrage; it was not a good look for him.

After a few moments of glaring he seemed to decide that the most fitting punishment for Harry was to ignore his presence completely. Instead, he turned to Dumbledore.

"Which is his wand arm?"

"The right, I believe."

Ollivander searched through boxes of wands as a tape measure performed obscure measurements on its own, completely ignoring Harry's demands to be told why a wand would need to know how far apart his nostrils were before choosing him. Eventually, Ollivander handed him a wand, which he (feeling stupid) proceeded to wave.

"Just call me Tinkerbell," he muttered under his breath—then tried to remember whether or not Tink had actually had a wand while Ollivander handed him more and more to wave around. Somewhere around the forty-seventh rejected wand, Ollivander apparently decided to forgive him.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—" Harry felt a thrill of foreboding "—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." Reluctantly, Harry took the wand and gave it a wave. He felt a warm tingling, and a flurry of green and blue sparks showered from its tip. Harry quickly dropped it on the ground, then eyed it suspiciously where it lay, looking for all the world like any other carefully polished twig.

Ollivander's subsequent words did nothing to make him want to take it up again.

"Well, well, well...how curious...how very curious..."

"What do you mean, _curious!?_" Harry demanded, a slight edge of hysteria in his voice. He was not having a good day so far, and had no reason to believe that it would improve.

"I remember every wand I ever sold, Mr. Potter..."

"—Dursley!"

"...Every single wand," Ollivander continued, ignoring the interruption, as he lifted the wand reverently from the floor at Harry's feet. "It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other." He gazed significantly at Dumbledore over Harry's shoulder. "It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry stepped backwards, bumping into Dumbledore.

"Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember...I think we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter..."

"Dursley," Harry muttered under his breath, as a matter of principle—this man was really beginning to disturb him.

"...After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Harry, shuddering, handed over the seven golden galleons without demur before thrusting the boxed wand at Dumbledore and virtually running from the shop. The freak world was not making a good first impression on him at all.

* * *

Dumbledore finally ran him to ground in a shop called Quality Quidditch Supplies, where he was gazing intently at a glass case containing a Nimbus 2000 broomstick. It had distracted him from his distress long enough to recall a certain phrase at the end of his equipment list: "PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS".

A few seconds of reflection were all that it took to remind Harry that he neither wanted nor needed a broomstick, but he felt more cheerful anyway.

If Hogwarts wanted Harry Dursley to attend it against his will, then Hogwarts would soon discover what a truly terrible mistake it had made. This time in Diagon Alley had convinced him that he was, indeed, something of a celebrity in the world of freaks, which meant that it was unlikely that the freaks at Hogwarts would do anything too lasting to him. Unfortunately, it also made them unlikely to expel him for anything short of murder, but at least he could make their lives as miserable as he was sure they would make his.

First, though, he would need access to as much information as possible about his adversaries, so he would know where and how hard to hit them for maximum impact. He would need Dumbledore's cooperation, but he would also need to ensure that Dumbledore didn't find his sudden compliance strange. He peered into the reflective glass case of the Nimbus 2000, schooling his expression to show apologetic sweetness, and a fair bit of uncertainty.

Turning, he presented this face to Dumbledore, complete with lip tremble.

"I'm sorry for running out like that, it's just...this is all so new to me, and when he started talking about...about..." he lowered his voice to a tremulous whisper "You-Know-Who...I just...just..."

"That's perfectly alright, my boy," Dumbledore assured him indulgently. "No harm done. Would you like to call it a day, and I'll bring you back tomorrow, or would you like to get everything out of the way now?"

"Out of the way now, please."

"Alright then. Where to next?"

"I was thinking, maybe my textbooks?" Unlike Dudley, Harry had a healthy respect for books and learning. Not in some prissy knowledge-for-the-sake-of-knowledge way, more like a knowledge-is-power kind of thing.

"Textbooks it is."

**A/N: **Three guesses which house he's headed for...


End file.
